Exit, Stage Left
by ricochette
Summary: John ponders the weight of memories as he runs through Atlantis. John/Nancy one-shot.


Author's Note: This is a companion piece to the one shot "A Curtain, Drawn," which focuses on Nancy Stevens (formerly Nancy Sheppard). This particularly piece will focus on John Sheppard.

I hope you enjoy this. Leave a review and let me know what you think.

**Exit, Stage Left**

John Sheppard ran through the halls of Atlantis quickly, attempting to sift through his thoughts – he always preferred this to the stack of paperwork on his desk. He hated the thought of going through papers when he could actually be _working _– that is, getting a job done or saving a life. Those moments – the lucky moments – made his job worth doing.

The paperwork, however, was something he could do without. A mountain of papers had been sitting on his desk in his office. His office was nowhere near his living quarters, as he preferred to keep his home life and his work life separate. Of course, this was something he had learned the hard way. The separation never came easy.

There was one pen that sat on John's desk, always at the ready, though he rarely used it. The pen had been given to him by his father – perhaps, John thought, it was Patrick Sheppard's means of showing affection. The pen was a mixture of gold and lacquer, clearly a flashy gift. Sometimes, the pen seemed heavier on certain days. When John led a mission that ended with a loss of life, the pen was a sight that he could not bear to take in. When things had gone well, it was easier to write with the instrument.

The pen was more than a tool for writing, though. The last person other than John who had touched it had been Nancy. He liked to think that it still smelled like her sweet vanilla scent – but he knew that was foolish.

**Years ago in Washington, D.C.**

Nancy sat at the table with John, dressed in a conservative skirt suit. John was wearing a formal Air Force uniform, as he was required to do at that point in time. Wearing the uniform at the meeting with the lawyer – the one that would officially end his marriage – was a bitter pill to swallow. It had been his very uniform – his job, after all – that ended his marriage. When Nancy had told him that she couldn't do it anymore, he didn't know what to say. He felt as if he could promise her one more time or one more shot. He felt as if it didn't have to end like that.

It wasn't that he didn't love her. He couldn't bear to bring work home to her – to tell her about the man he lost or the child that would no longer have a father. He couldn't look into her vibrant brown eyes and tell her that sometimes, he couldn't bear the thought of living with himself when he knew that he had taken men and women out to the deaths. She didn't need to see that – but he never told her that. He never told her _why_ he couldn't talk about it.

"Do you, John Sheppard, agree to the aforementioned terms of this proceeding?" the lawyer asked, bringing John back to the reality of the situation. He had never believed that this would happen to him. _"I can't do this anymore, John._" The soft and sad words that once came from Nancy's lips kept playing through his mind.

John nodded, not saying a word. A black lacquer pen that Nancy had retrieved from her leather briefcase was on the table in front of John. The lawyer nodded his head, encouraging John to take the pen and sign the legal document. John quickly signed the form with the pen, trying not to think about what he had just done. He hadn't wanted it to end like that.

Nancy shook her head, unsure of how the past few years had led to this. The lawyer spoke on in a dry voice. Before much time had passed by, it was Nancy's turn to take the sleek black lacquer pen and sign her name on the bottom of the form. Nancy did so in a neat cursive, unable to bear the thought of looking into John's eyes. After the lawyer had left the room, the two rose to leave, unsure of what to say to each other.

The silence was awkward… and deafening.

As John reached for the door, Nancy grabbed the pen from the table and rushed over to him.

"Wait!" She said quickly with a sense of random urgency. "This was a gift from your father a few Christmases ago. It's yours."

"I…" John struggled to find words with which to reply to his now ex-wife. "It doesn't matter."

"You'll want it someday." Nancy said quietly, looking down at the ground as she nibbled on her bottom lip nervously. John averted his eyes after he saw her do this – she had done this when they first met. The gesture drove him crazy with longing. He couldn't break through his poker face now – he couldn't reveal everything to her after she had officially agreed to end everything.

John shrugged and looked into her eyes. He found her difficult to read. There was a time when he knew everything about her. As he read her, he felt a sense of bitter pain. Perhaps, he had never really known Nancy Sheppard – wait, Nancy Stevens, he corrected himself – at all.

Nancy silently insisted that he take the pen from her hand. Reluctantly, John's hand met Nancy's – lingering for a bit too long – and he retrieved the pen from her grasp. Nancy smiled politely.

"Take care of yourself, John." She said with a meaningful tone. Her eyes, however, were pleading. "Stay safe." John nodded.

"You too, Nance… you too." Finding it impossible to say anything else, John walked out of the small office. There was too much furniture and too many bookcases for his liking – the room felt as if it was closing in on him. He walked quickly through the winding halls of the office building, not feeling himself until he walked out and met the muggy air of Washington, D.C.

He suddenly became aware that he was clutching the pen tightly in his hands. Major John Sheppard felt silly and childish standing outside of that office building in the middle of August, taking in the humid and swampy air of downtown Washington, D.C. Men and women quickly walked past him dressed in neutral suits and skirt suits. The pen felt as if it was heavier than the world.

As if on cue, a black sedan pulled up – the one that John had requested to take him back to Quantico – and John stepped inside. He sat in the car and placed his briefcase next to him. He felt uneasy until he opened the briefcase and placed the black lacquer pen inside.

If he didn't see it, it wasn't there. Only then would it weigh nothing.

**Atlantis, present time.**

John continued to run, wondering if the pen would be heavy or light when he went to sign off on his paperwork at the end of the week. As he sped past doors and corridors, he thought only of Nancy – and the doors that he had closed. He wondered how she was doing and whether or not Grant treated her well.

Sometimes, he found it difficult to sleep – knowing that another man lay beside Nancy keeping her warm at night. Grant, he bet, woke up with Nancy every morning and went off to do whatever job he did. It probably was a _respectable_ and _normal_ job. He probably took all the right days off. He probably was there for every special day on Nancy's calendar.

It wasn't that John _forgot _the days – he knew them quite well. As every year passed by, the days still lingered in his memory, begging to be acknowledged. Sighing, John continued to run through the halls of Atlantis. John spent ten more minutes down the dimly lit corridors until he finally reached his living quarters. Right as he got to the door, the beeper on his watch went off.

John looked down at saw that it was now 12:00 AM on September 2.

"God damn it!" John muttered under his breath as he kicked against his door.

The September 2nd before Nancy left, John had been on a mission in Nicaragua. He had promised her that he would be there – he even made dinner reservations at her favorite restaurant. He made it damn well clear to the maitre d' that he didn't want that creaky table by the small window – he wanted the more sturdy table near the larger bay window – the window where you could see the Potomac River lit up with the faint lights of boats and tiny shops and backwater cafes. He even had his favorite suit dry cleaned for the occasion. He promised Nancy he'd be there – he told her to be free for eight thirty that night.

And of course… he couldn't be there. At eight seventeen, he scribbled a quick note and left a card on the counter top. At eight forty nine, he was on an airplane headed to a Central American jungle. Two men would die on that mission, though sixteen would be saved.

John sighed and slumped against his door, putting his head in his hands. Every September 2nd, the pen in his office was destined to weigh more than it did the day prior.

September 2nd was Nancy's birthday: and another day that he wasn't there.


End file.
